Destruction in Flesh and Blood
by anacsadder
Summary: Title reaks, but it's the content that matters. Being a gay teenager isn't always romance and sunshine. This is a dark, tragic, angsty fic. It's a difficult one to summarize, so just go check it out yourselves, huh? Richie, Hotstreak, Virgil


FATR: **I really wasn't sure how to rate this, so read with caution. **Today is anti-violence day, or summat, so I decided to post this in honor of that day. Hate crimes are horrible, terrible, rotten things. My muses have truly proven themselves this time. This turned into something... well, something I never expected. I hope you feel it like I do. Please R and R so I can see. I don't own Static Shock, and remember, this is a fan fiction. It doesn't necessarily reflect my personal views, and I'm certainly not homophobic. I just want to try and get people to think a little, is all. I'll warn you that I've taken several creative liberties in regard to characterization. Flame if you like, but you have been warned. Besides, fire is pretty and sparkly. Without further ado, I present to you: the chip chip.

X)O(X

It was a warm sunny day and Richie was on his way home from school. Aw, yes, summer vacation! There was nothing like the first day of summer vacation, only this one was extra special. He'd lived through his first year of highschool, Bang Babies and bullies included. The blond stretched his arms to the sky and tilted his head back so the sun could light up his face. There was no school tomorrow and in two hours he was going to go patrolling with Virgil. That is, as soon as Daisy and Virgil's date ended. It was nice to see those two end up together after making goo goo eyes at each other across the lunch table all year.

Richie stopped to put his green hoodie in his backpack. It was far too hot for that. As he swung his bag onto the ground and knelt to open it, he caught the eye of someone driving by; someone who had been semi-stalking him all day. This someone was also a student thrilled that school was out for the summer. Of course, this person hardly ever showed up at school anyway. The driver of the battered white Buick smirked darkly as he pulled into an alley way not too far from the other boy. If his calculations were correct, then the boy's path should pass the alley... now. Hotstreak got out of the car and strode purposefully towards his prey.

Richie gasped as a sharp tug on the handle of his backpack hauled him backwards, deep into the shadows of the brick canyon. The momentum of the jolt sent him flying to the ground on his stomach. His backpack settled roughly on top of him, making him gasp sharply. Richie's assailant made to pick him up by his back pack and repeat the violent action. The blond wouldn't stand for that. He twisted out of the straps and ran several steps toward the back of the alley, too surprised and frightened to think of where he was going. A fire ball whistled past his head and the dumpster in front and to the left of him combusted. Richie jumped back and turned to face his opponent for the first time. No, not his opponent, his attacker, because Richie knew he was by no means a match for Hotstreak; not without Backpack and his other gadgets.

Hotstreak didn't even wait for Foley to speak. He dodged a pathetically aimed punch, grabbed Richie's wrist, and twisted his arm behind his back. The delinquent's hand slid into his back pocket and withdrew a small, shiny object. There was a small _shft_ sound and the object was pressed against Richie's lower back. A smile darkened Hotstreak's face when the kid cried out and went rigid.

There was something sharp and pointy digging into his back. As much as Richie would have hated to admit, that small sharp object felt petrifyingly like a switch blade. Everything was suddenly cold. Very cold. Richie knew it was supposed to be in the mid to upper nineties today, but in the ominous, uncaring shadows of the flanking buildings it felt like the arctic. Feeling weak at the knees, Richie took a deep breath and managed to whisper, "W-what do you want...?"

Hotstreak leered and pushed his prey toward the car. "Just get in and shut up, ass weasel."

When Hotstreak opened the trunk and lifted the boy to stuff him in, Richie panicked. The blond planted both feet firmly on the edge of the trunk and pushed backwards as hard as he could. "No! Let me go! Let me-" A cry tore itself from his vocal chords when the knife pressed against his throat and the pyro's temperature began to approach skin searing degrees.

"Get. In. The. Trunk," Hotstreak hissed.

Richie paled and acquiesced. The larger boy's hands pressed Richie down on his side and twisted his torso around so he was laying on his back with his knees tucked up by his left shoulder. Richie winced but didn't dare say anything out loud.

Hotstreak felt a surge of adrenaline glaring into his captive's fear widened eyes. The pyro reached behind his back and removed the handcuffs hooked through his back belt loop. Blondie struggled some more, but it was hardly a challenge to get the cuffs on, especially with the kid trapped on his back. Then the bully ripped fabric off the bottom of Richie's shirt and shoved it practically down his throat.

The trunk slammed shut with a loud crash, plunging Richie into an airless darkness. The gag didn't make breathing any easier. He screamed as best he could, kicking, and crashing around the trunk, using every millimeter of the limited space he had for movement in an attempt to call attention to himself. It didn't do a lot of good, though. Driving down the street, no one would hear him.

Man, and his back pack had been left in the alley. Even if he could have twisted around enough to use it, the shock vox was far away and getting farther each passing minute. Speaking of which, how far were they? And how far were they going? And what was Hotstreak going to do with him once they got there? It wasn't quite a secret that Richie was gay. Fear spurred the blond's heart. What if he was about to be a victim of one of those hate crimes the history teacher had been talking about? Aw, man... Aw, man... He started kicking and clawing again, too terrified to feel the bruises or notice the sting in his finger tips as his nails began to bleed. The things that happened... the kid beaten to near death then tied to a fence... Had he survived? Richie couldn't remember, but... Aw, man, no!

How much time had passed was indeterminate. Seconds turned into minutes and became hours in the oppressive darkness. The darkness. That made it so much worse. Richie hollered around the gag and felt tears pricking his eyes. Claustrophobia set in quickly, driving the tears down the sides of Richie's face where they disappeared into his hair. He couldn't breath! He was going to smother in there! He was going to... The car stopped abruptly and the thud of the door froze him in his tracks. The blond held his breath in the silence that followed. Finally, the lid was lifted and he was once more faced with his captor's demonic scowl. The light and the air were welcome, but Hotstreak's presence ruined any and all solace Richie might have found in mother nature's natural comforts.

Hotstreak didn't speak. He grabbed the sleeves of Richie's white T-shirt and dragged him out. His back scraped over the rim of the trunk and his legs gave out when he tried to stand on them. Hotstreak jerked his captive upright by his upper arms. At the muffled gasp of pain Hotstreak snapped, "Shove it, queer boy," and slammed him down on the hood of the car.

"Eethetheegh..." Richie whimpered. Hotstreak grabbed a fistful of blond hair and jerked Richie's head back.

"You got somethin you wanna share, fag face?" The red head demanded insidiously, leaning right down next to Richie's ear.

Richie whimpered again in response to the sparks of pain running rampant across his scalp and shook his head as best he could.

"Damn straight." On the word 'straight,' Hotstreak slammed Richie face back down on the hood with an audible _clang_. "Or should I say damn queer?"

Richie's glasses dug painfully into his face and, once he was hauled upright again, he noticed one of the lenses was cracked. The tip of the knife jabbed him in the back again, punctuating Hotstreak's command that he start walking. Richie had no choice but to obey. He glanced around, trying to figure out where he was and where they were going. And to where he might be able to escape. They were at the docks, and they were headed toward a large, crumbling warehouse. The building stared blankly at him with all of its eyeless sockets. Nothing but black space reached out from those shattered windows. Moisture had tiptoed mold over just about every available surface. The building looked dead, and Richie had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he might end up the same.

Keeping one arm around the blond's throat and the knife press against his lower back, Hotstreak kicked open the door to reveal the pitch black maw beyond. The bully dragged the teen inside until they reached the edge of the light stretching in from the door. Then the red head put his free hand up like a torch to illuminate their way, nudging the teen forward with the knife. He could sense the moisture in the air but resisted the urge to cringe away from it. He had to keep control. He had to keep his victim frightened. Any sign of weakness on Hotstreak's part might be just the nudge Richie needed to attempt an act of self preservation. They made their way around the rotting crates until Hotstreak reached the spot he wanted.

Richie glanced around the small clearing in the crates. There was a pile of dirty rags, empty cans and food wrappers strewn about, and a cracked cooler that looked like it had been salvaged from a junk yard. He cast an inquisitive glance over his shoulder at Hotstreak.

"Get down," Hotstreak commanded, pressing Richie to his knees in front of the cooler, "and stay there."

Richie turned his head to follow the larger boy's progress. Where was he? What was going on? Was he going to get raped? Aw, shit, had Hotstreak figured out that Static was Virgil? And what was that smell? Did Hotstreak notice it? How could he not? It made Richie want to throw up.

Hotstreak felt the eyes on his back and whipped around, eyes glowing. "Head down, cocksucker!"

Richie immediately obeyed and focused instead on stilling his trembling hands. There was movement behind him, followed by a crash and the sound of splintering wood. Richie swallowed hard and tried to will his stomach to unknot. Goose bumps were tiptoeing over his skin and causing him to shiver, though whether it was a mark of cold or a mark of terror was ambiguous. It was most likely some combination of the two. Footsteps heralded his tormentor's return. He felt waves of heat brush across his skin when Hotstreak kneeled behind him. The heat didn't do anything for the goose bumps or the shivering, so he decided they must be marks of terror.

"I'm sure you've got all kinds of questions milling around in that genius brain of yours." Hotstreak slid the blade into the neck of Richie's T-shirt. Richie gulped and nodded. Hotstreak chuckled as he sliced open the back of the boy's shirt. "You know where you are?" A tint of rage seeped into the red head's voiced.

Richie's shirt dropped down his arms and stopped at his wrists. The rape theory was beginning to look frighteningly plausible. At least it was minutely preferable to the hate crime theory, which he was sure he wouldn't survive. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground from the note in Hotstreak's voice. Richie shook his head slowly, hoping it wouldn't set off the volatile meta-human.

"This," Hotstreak stood and spread his arms to indicate the entire room, "is my home. Has been for the past six months. You don't know how lucky you are, ass weasel." Here he bent over to pick up the board he had broken from the crate. "To have a roof over your head. To always know where you're next meal's coming from." He moved around to Richie's right side, holding the wood in one hand with it resting on his shoulder. "Fuck, I got kicked out on my ass when I was sixteen. Six-fucking-teen!" The blond flinched. "Then there's you. Roof over your head. Loving parents. Friends. A fucking faggot is better off. A fucking faggot! And you look at me! You fucking look and it makes me sick!" He brought the plank up like a baseball bat.

'That's not true!' Richie tried to protest. 'My dad hates me! I never looked at you! Please let me go!' But all that came out was, "Athothu! Iahthee! Ietherookathu! Eethetheegh!"

"I told you to shut it, ass weasel," Hotstreak growled and swung. The board connected with the back of Richie's head, slamming him down across the cooler and knocking off his glasses. Blood seeped through the blond hair, turning it red. Wounds to the head always bled the most. Hotstreak rather liked blood. It was warm and red, like fire. When the blood cooled, it meant death had occurred, like fire.

Red flowers of pain blossomed in Richie's vision and everything grayed out. He closed his eyes as the room spun, trying to keep down the contents of his stomach. Red on black. Red pain flowers in a black garden of death. He was distantly aware that Hotstreak was preparing to strike again, but Richie couldn't move, couldn't speak. His body remained draped listlessly across the cooler as the weapon came down on his back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. For a while there was some twisted part of his brain that insisted on counting the blows. It was the same part of his brain that was forever pestering him with ideas. Around twenty something he stopped counting. All he wanted to do was pass out; just pass out and let Hotstreak do what he would. That part of his brain that had insisted on counting now insisted on keeping him awake. That part of his brain caused him so much grief...

The instrument of payback was turning red, soaking up the red that leaked out of the blond's back. Richie's stark white Irish skin served as a perfect backdrop for the deep crimson. Hotstreak liked to consider himself an artist. Certainly not in the traditional sense of the word. The traditional meaning of the word was beyond his understanding and interest, but there _was_ something of an art to destruction. Destruction could be beautiful when orchestrated correctly. In this case, the boy's pale back was the paper and his crimson blood was the paint. Hotstreak could have gone on like this forever, long after the boy stopped breathing, even, but the board was an imperfect tool. It finally broke.

Hotstreak growled and cast it aside with a clatter. There were better tools for this medium. Much better tools. But was his subject still conscious? Hotstreak nudged the kid off the cooler with his foot. Richie thudded heavily onto his back. His eyes were closed but his bare chest rose and fell slowly. "You hear me, fag face?" The kid twitched a bit but didn't open his eyes. "Come on, ass weasel," Hotstreak snarled as he brought out the knife. "Wake up!"

Richie could hear the voice but it was far away and muzzy. He stirred and moved his head but was hit with a piercing headache. Groaning, he tried to put his hand to his forehead but couldn't move it with the deadweight of the other one attached to it.

"Good."

The sadistic voice drifted down layers and layers of consciousness to reach Richie and draw his eyes painfully open. The psychotic pyro dropped down beside him. Light from somewhere glinted along the blade in his hand and reflected in his eyes. It took the confused teenager a moment to realize Hotstreak's eyes themselves were the source of the light. Sweat prickled Richie's skin as the knife was lowered slowly to his chest. He screamed and knocked the sadistic hand away. When he tried to roll to his knees, Hotstreak pinned him and slashed him across the face. Richie screamed and tried to push his attacker away again but only earned a fist in the stomach. This seemed to effectively knock the fight out of the boy. "Onthkiee..." He pleaded through the gag; 'Don't kill me.'

Hotstreak laughed. "You don't understand what I'm doin here, do you?" He pressed the knife against his canvas, right beneath Richie's collar bone. "You can't, but that doesn't matter." The boy screamed something that might have been 'no, no!' but the words didn't matter. Hotstreak drew a long red line down to Richie's bellybutton. He could almost hear the skin tear. If the little fag would stop screaming, perhaps he would be able to hear it. He trailed a line from Richie's right shoulder, between his nipples, and down to his left side. Then he repeated the process from his left shoulder to his right side. Line by line, curve by curve, Hotstreak carved his victim into a beautiful picture of destruction. He traced especially deep trails down the hollows between each rib. The screams each addition elicited were merely part of the final work: a harmonious symphony of destruction.

The red head sat back to admire his work, a sick smile slithering across his face. As his eyes traveled up his canvas to land on Richie's face the frown slipped back into place. That dripping red slash glared at him. It was a mistake, an imperfection, wasn't it? He'd always allowed his temper to mar his masterpieces. Then again, he always managed to work the mistake into the final product so that it was the most striking element of all. After taking stock of the job thus far, he moved back in to complete and perfect it.

Couldn't understand? Couldn't understand! Of course Richie couldn't understand. It made no sense. Why did the other teen have to hate him so much? Why did anyone have to hate anyone? Even his father hated him. What sense did that make? Love supposedly conquered all, but love was conditional. Mr. Foley loved his son, as long as his son had white friends and dated white girls. Husbands loved their wives, and vice versa, but only if someone better didn't come along. Being different was beautiful, but only if it wasn't socially unacceptable. It made Richie sick; both how people treated each other and what Hotstreak was doing to him.

This all came from the part of his brain that always refused to shut up. It was this part that was keeping him there and aware long after he wanted to be away and gone. Even with blood loss blurring his vision and tipping his world upside down, that part of his brain screamed and screamed and screamed and... Hotstreak was cutting off the rest of his clothes now. God, was the sadist going to rape him? After being so pissed because he though Richie had checked him out, he was going to rape Richie? Hotstreak was just unbalanced enough to pull a hypocritical stunt like that. Everything was hypocritical, wasn't it? Even hate.

Richie pleaded with that part of his brain to shut up and let him go, but it wouldn't.

Hotstreak sliced more pictures up Richie's arms and down his legs before tiring of the tool. Though more effective than the wood, all tools except fire were inferior for this work. Fire was a perfect, natural, destructive force; raw power incarnate. "Almost there, ass weasel," he hissed sinisterly as fire came up to cover his hand. He watched the fire jump to life, eyes glazed and glittering. "Almost done..." He turned to look at his art, eyes an inferno of insanity. His medium's eyes were closed again and tear tracks could be seen making their way down the now deathly pale skin. "Aw, come on, queer boy," he crooned in a far away voice. "Don't drop out on me now. Wouldn't want you to miss the grand finale." The boy didn't move an inch. "Oh, faggot," Hotstreak sang softly as he leaned in closer. "It's time... to... wake... UP!" On the last word he pressed his flaming palm against the boy's chest. The reaction was instantaneous. Richie's eyes snapped open and a shriek tore itself from his throat. His frail body convulsed once. The sound and smell of searing flesh tingled Hotstreak's senses. Art was more than sight. He knew enough to understand that, in his own twisted way of understanding.

A loud, insane cackled assaulted Richie's ears through the pain.

"Now, let's put on the finishing touches..."

(Two Days Later)

Virgil had begun to worry when Richie hadn't shown up for patrol. He'd waited around for three hours, but his partner hadn't shown up and he hadn't answered his shock vox. Worry had plagued the super hero all throughout patrol and he had finally decided to go home and call Richie. The genius had just gotten absorbed in an invention and had forgotten about patrol. That was all, and it wouldn't have been the first time, but the nagging feeling had sent Virgil home anyway. Sure enough, Richie's parents hadn't seen Richie, either.

The next morning the police had joined the search, but to no avail. Virgil, discontent with having been forced to sit and wait, had gone out to look for his sidekick. Tracing the frequency of the shock vox had led the human battery to the alley where the filthy back had been found in a dumpster. Scorch marks in the fabric had led the police to Hotstreak, but the pyro had refused to reveal the location of what he had kept referring to as his museum. He had sworn up and down that they couldn't possibly understand, that it would be lost on them.

An all night search of the ware house had turned up a trap door under a stack of crates. There had been a basement to the ware house. What had been found in that basement would haunt Virgil for the rest of his days. The psycho had been right. No one could have understood. There had been bodies in various stages of decay mounted on the walls, like a sick gallery of death. Richie's had been the freshest. On the back of a door had been a list of names. Each of the dead had been crossed off. Three names had caught Static's eye and made his blood run cold: Frieda Gordon, Daisy, Virgil Hawkins. This last name, his name, had been underlined twice.

It was all over the news. It was on the front page of the paper, illustrated with colored ink. It had been sickeningly fascinating how the images of hate and destruction seemed so important. Then again, maybe everyone had understood. Maybe they had understood, more than they dared to realize, the beautiful and artistic nature of destruction.

Virgil stared at the closed casket through tear blurred eyes. He was glad it was closed. He had seen the body once as Static and couldn't bear to see it again, especially the large slanted 'F' carved into his friend's face. Virgil never hated Hotstreak more than he did at that moment. Well, it was a close call between this moment and the moment he had found the body. He would make that flame head pay if he ever saw him again. There would be no such mercy as the courts had bestowed. So what if the bastard was mentally ill? He deserved to fry, and Virgil wanted to personally power the chair. But no. No, the murdering nutbar somehow managed to get a damn good lawyer. He had been committed to Ravencroft in New York. It was a long way away, but Ravencroft was specially equipped to deal with super-powered nutjobs. That and it would keep the lunatic from coming after Virgil and his friends, or at least make it significantly more difficult. The only catharsis Virgil had was the knowledge that Hotstreak would never again see the light of day.

Sharon patted him on the shoulder and the boy snapped back to reality. The teenager swallowed the lump in his throat and made his way to the front of the somber group to deliver his 14-year-old best friend's eulogy. He found he had to grip the podium to keep from collapsing on the spot.

"Richie," he began shakily, "Richie was more than just my best friend." Here he was forced to pause and wipe his eyes. "He was like a brother. We did everything together. We took our first steps together, and we went on our first roller coaster together. I had hoped we would walk up on stage together to get our diplomas, and go to college together." Virgil fought back a sob. "I had even imagined him standing beside me," his voice cracked, "on my wedding day, as my best man..." Virgil had to stop here as fresh tears spilled down his face. They blurred the tableau of mournful faces watching him. "I'm sorry..." he whispered and looked down for a moment to recollect himself. "I just, I never thought I'd have to burry him, and at such a young age. He was a... a good guy."

As he spoke his eyes fell on Mr. Foley. The man wasn't crying. His face was hard as stone, even as his wife wept bitterly beside him. When Virgil called Richie a good guy, he thought he saw Mr. Foley shake his head slightly as his eyes darkened with some negative emotion. Virgil felt something like anger swell up in his heart. Here was this man's son lying in an early grave, the victim of a hate crime, and his father still couldn't set aside his prejudices and accept him. "Rich always had my back, no matter what. I just regret that this time, I wasn't there to... return..." He let his eyes fall on Richie's dad again and felt an unidentifiable emotion surge through his body. Virgil crumpled the speech he had prepared, stuffed it roughly in his pocket, and took a deep breath to steady his rising anger before starting on a new train of thought.

"Look, Richie was a great, kind, brilliant student, and above all decent. He never would have hurt anyone. Whenever I got myself into trouble with someone at school, Richie was always there to make peace. Why? Why does a good guy like him have to die? His murder made the front page. There was even a full color picture. Did anyone see the article on page five?" He looked around at the suddenly confused faces. "It was only twelve lines, and it didn't have any pictures. A woman who had been labeled barren for years finally had a child. It was a miracle baby, doctor's said, so why was it buried on page five? Buried under the hate and the murder and the scandal?" Virgil shook his head. "As much as it hurts, I think I understand why Richie had to go. He was too good for this world, just too good for this world..." The teen felt fresh tears fill his eyes. "So, I guess there's not a lot left to say, except goodbye. Goodbye, Rich, I know you're in a better place now. I only hope that someday... I'll be good enough to join you." Dragging his feet, he trailed back to his seat, and burst into tears.


End file.
